Surviving Suburbia# 3 Roommate mishaps

During these economic and troubling times one finds financial stability and security wherever one may. For me this means a true to life, bread and butter suburbanite roommate, raised in the town of Mayberry…Mayweather…Blueberry or some other generically named desperate housewives suburb. It was an insidiously tiresome search for the perfect roommate. After all I needed someone who could match my nocturnal habits and standards of cleanliness and hygiene. So naturally I selectively picked the first person to respond to my needs…henceforth know as roommate.

 I often here whispers of complaints that children raised in the city grow up entirely too fast. Their knowledge outstrips their chronological age and outpaces their emotional maturity. Well I would hazard that perhaps a little extra wisdom among the young would make for more prudent and decision worthy adults. Perhaps our suburbanite counterparts can do with a little maturity beyond their years or at the very least within their years.

 'You may find yourself asking, Marina why are you writing this?' Well, you would also find yourself asking, if you were to ever visit my home--' Marina where the hell are your oven knobs?' Here is the answer to both.

 

It is 1 am. I am awakened by the alarming smell of burning plastic. Intrigued I walk to the kitchen to find my roommate, ashen white and running a cold whatever onto what appears to be your normal Wal-Mart 99cent green bowl. He looks confused and scared but mostly guilty. A  strong aroma appears to be emanating from said green bowl.

 

Myself: Hey, Chef Boyardee did you try to warm up the nacho cheese in that bowl on the stove? I ask

Roommate: No off course not, He answers.....Whew I’m relieved.

Roommate: I tried doing it in the oven, he says nonplussed.

Myself: What, thinking I must have misheard what he just said.

Roommate: I did it in the oven he calmly restates.

Myself: Wait! Why ? What?

Sure enough I open the oven and there on my beautiful steel rack is the distinct residue of melted green plastic. Furthermore, I being of solid Russian stock keep as my ancestors did, our 3 cooking utensils in the oven. To be removed with necessary oven use and replaced when done (its quite the ingenious space saver). Now… with only 3 possible cookware it is not hard to remember that they are kept in the oven and keep track of them. But dear readership (at least the one person I know) wouldn’t you know like some Salvador Dali grotesqueness there sat the rubber coated frying pan slowly dripping grey rubber into the quickly solidifying green goop.

Myself: What the hell were you thinking?

Roommate (defensively): Well doesn’t plastic have like a melting point of 500 or something (actuality 280). I didn’t think it would melt, he said

Myself: What the hell is wrong with you, this isn’t a chem class, what are you saying about boiling points, what the hell is matter with you?

Roommate:  I didn’t know it would melt, I thought it could stand up to heat.

Myself: This isn’t military grade plastic…this is wal-mart…if you put hot water in it, melts. Why did you think this was ok? I asked again.

Roommate: I didn’t know

Myself: No silver foil in the microwave, no plastic in the oven look both ways before you cross the street and if you pee in the wind you will get peed on. Those are the sorts of facts in life you learn early in life.

Roommate: ….hmmmm….

Myself: You could have burned the entire apartment down

Roommate: …..eh……

 

Strongly resisting the urge to put my foot up his ass and asking him to tell me the melting point of that, I think of what comes next. I find myself staring into the eyes of a 30+ something year old man (granted he is from the suburbs so clearly that must put him at the capacity of a 7 year old) who just tried to melt his nacho cheese but putting it in a plastic bowl in the oven. How does one properly reprimand a legal comprehending adult for such an action? I did the only thing I could think off. I took the knobs of the stove and took away his big boy cooking privileges.

 

The kicker it wasn’t even microwavable safe dish. The kick in the pants, this guy was a firefighter. The kick in the nuts, I ended up having to wash the g-d damned melted bowl this afternoon.

Surviving Suburbia: #2

Hailing from NY where a 10-block walk is not a matter of much intrigue let alone blog worthy. Romping the dangerous streets of modern suburbia turned out to be an entirely different adventure.  For one I believe I crossed at least 3 to 4 different borders. As I waited by a light, a man across the street coughed and sneezed. And I had to wonder whether this gentleman in Yorkville(burb#2) just sprayed me with aerosolized Swine Flu, even though I was all the way across the street in Westmont(my humble abode/burb#1). 

As I was making my trek into Downers Grove (burb#3) I was approached by a car. A sporty yellow convertible pulled up close and slowed to match my 3mph walk. I boldly strode on, ignoring the motioning gentleman that I was able to see out of my one good peripheral vision eye.  I quickened my pace and he surged to match my now 4.2mph quickstep. He rolled his window down. I turned around and was about to shout ‘Mr. I don’t want any candy, I already have a Twix in my pocket and my daddy is Arnold Schwarzenegger’.  Then I realized that I wasn’t seven and this gentleman was not after my youth and innocence. So the beginnings of my Misteeeer screech turned into a ‘may I help you’. 

As it turned out he wanted to help me. He though I was lost. I quickly dispelled him of that notion.

 “I am exploring” I said.

“Really…on foot?” He questioned.

“Why yes I am from NY, I enjoy walking, “ I replied.

“Well okay…. enjoy your exploration, Franz Ferdinand” he replied wryly.

“Aah sir, I assuming you mean to say Ferdinand Magellan the explorer and not the mediocre Scottish rock band” I corrected him.

He sped off. Lesson #1 strangers don’t like being corrected on their 13^th century explorers.  I walked on. I was stopped three additional times and asked if I needed help or if I was lost. The last one was a 2008 Bentley. I actually considered feigning distress to this reasonably handsome gentleman in his unreasonably expensive car.  But then I told myself ‘Marina why settle for last years model car and complimentary trust fund baby. Hold out I’m sure a 2009 Bentley will cruise by any time.’ Lesson #2, know when to settle.

Finally I reached my destination…the famous Oak Park, home of 8700 inhabitants and the famous lawn chair incident. I’m not exactly sure what grand revelation I was expecting at the end of this yellow brick road, but it wasn’t there. Hark! No angels sang for me not even a squawking pigeon. Instead I saw the exact same cookie cutter layout as I had passed in the last 3 suburbs. Walgreens, Dunkins and generic overpriced Market to my right. To my left Jewel Osco (supermarket), Hobby Lobby, Home Depot and Wal-Mart complete with a Starbucks and a distinctly not NY pizza place claiming to sell NY pizza. Straight ahead were dealerships as far as the eye can see. And behind me the exact same township replica. But nowhere in site was there another human being. 

Surviving Suburbia: #1

I went for a walk today or maybe it was yesterday…I can’t be sure (50 points to the existentialist who can tell me where I nicked the opening from). It was warm but not hot the bank sign read 72°F.  It wasn’t a BOFA, WAMU, CITI or some other four letter word that inflates interest rates just because they can. No, this was 3/5ths Commercial Bank. I suppose in these hard economic times its not financially savvy to run a full 5/5ths bank.

The kindly 3/5^th told me it was 72°F as well as to have a nice day and drive carefully. I silently thanked the bank gods for their public service reminder. And much like little red riding hood sans the red hoodie and basket I set to find grandmas house.  Armed with a granola bar, and a brand spanking new compass application for my phone, I boldly stepped where no suburbanite tread before. The STREETS.

Excesses of Capitalism

A new series by yours truly where I find ridiculously overpriced items or just plainly ridiculous items that make you think twice about why one is riding a $17,000 Chanel outfitted Segway with Loius Vitton mud flaps while you are flipping burgers for minimum wage.

Diamond Fruit Cake

$1.65 million dollars

Typically food serves a couple of purposes: Indulging one’s desires for the yummy or fueling the human body. But What about the world’s most expensive dessert? The Diamond Fruit Cake, made by a Japanese chef and valued at $1.65 million dollars. Its not an art piece as you may think, it is in fact quite edible but you’ll have to remove about 225 diamonds first. I was thinking today, 'you know what sucks about dessert? How you don’t have to pick thousands of sharp little objects out of them before eating'. Thanks Japanese guy!

You Can't Trust the Heart.... It Lies

Today I asked a person for advice. He proffered the very artful, the very transcendent "follow your heart". At first I was taken aback by this thoughtful and ethereal sentiment. What spiritual beliefs, what poetic advice. Did Romeo and Juliet not follow their hearts, to their grave one may say but in love. Did Paris of Troy not follow his heart into the bed of his lover Helen, where she lay ever so beautiful next to her husband Menelaus. A measly epic Trojan War is small price to be for your heart. For all of you young heart followers, yes, you Buffy watching, twilight reading vampire dressing wand twirling hip kids who cant seem to find collective allegory in old folks tales, its not different for you. Initially his heart may lead him to the pale human girl or the ruggedly handsome and tanned even though he has not seen the sun all his life vampire boy, but in the end she will stab him in the heart or he will eat her, they always do. 

So, pardon my non-romantic sentiment but none of those carry the flavor of fairy tale endings. Follow the heart; the heart is the stupidest part of the body. You can’t trust it. It lies. The heart tells you that you can’t live without that axe murderer maniac and that he’s just misunderstood. The heart tells you that it’ll be easy to clean the rust off that car and it’ll be no trouble at all. The heart tells you to quit your job and move across the country for that stripper you’ve known for just a half hour.  It keeps tempting you to follow that guy who keeps telling you about how his wife doesn’t understand him. It doesn’t matter that he’s a doctor that’s also a lawyer who additionally plays in a rock band. Is it any wonder the damn thing breaks so often? 

Remember, you can’t believe a word the heart says. You have to watch it constantly.  Besides, you were drunk, and that stripper was probably fat.

Kids, Kites and the Kama Sutra

This years first 80 degree weather graced a bright and sunny Sunday Morning. New Yorkers of all ages took to the great outdoors in shorts and brightly colored Polo's to enjoy this beautiful day. Bikes, skates and all manner of balls were dusted and brought to the many public parks.

Sure you westerners may say 'but what about the beaches' and the southerners may scoff at what we call parks, but I love my NY and I love Central Park. Joining the flurry of the penned up and the wintered out I and a few of my fellow friends took to the grassy fields of Sheepshead Meadow, one of the larger Central Park Lawns.


It was a undulating sea of people. Balls of all shapes and sizes flying through the air. Young alpha males strutting their tail feathers, making unnecessarily complicated catches while flipping in he air over trees and all with their shirts off. Feats of strength and exercise were displayed by the single young bucks in hopes of catching that young females eye. The young ladies daintily outstretched on their paisley blankets showing just enough leg to make sure the fellars keep trying.Fathers and sons kicking the soccer ball around. Neurotic Manhattanite mothers looking disapprovingly as their future anorexic daughters lick ice cream.


Amongst many of the springtime activities two particular ones caught my eye. In the midst of the many couples in love one particular one stood out. My drunken beach bound friends used to jokingly ask me, what better then sex on the beach? Truthfully I have never had an answer but after this Sunday the answer has become abundantly obvious. The only thing better then sex on the beach is sex in the park. Yes bewildered ladies and gents everywhere. This particular couple was so much in love that they could not bear to keep their love a bedroom secret any longer. Covered in a thin green sheet, they gyrated to their own little tune, oblivious to all the park visitors, myself included taking picture.
You may think what that how can it get any better or more absurd then this. Well not a few feet from our fornicating couple was another couple practicing chapter 4 page 36 from the Kama Sutra- The Screwing Crane. Young sir lay on his back his feet spread wide open while holding up his young lady friend by her belly as he repeatedly dipped her head into his naughty bits. Not only were they raptly enjoying what they angaged quite the fan base. The Kama Sutrathon became a spectator sports with cheers, jeers and requests for different positions. I personally just got tired watching them.


So what is the moral of this story you may ask? We New Yorkers may not have the fields, meadows, beaches or amber waves of grain, but hey who wants sand in your crotch anyway, grass doesn't stick quite so deep.


Happy spring days!

The Life Of A Medical Student.

4:00 am comes round the horizon way too fast…aka -Monday Morning

Jolt awake to an annoying ring on my phone. Look at the time,

4:30am: entirely to early for any human being to be up. Hit snooze

4:37am: OK 5 more minutes. Snooze

4:41am: 5 more and I’ll forgo brushing my teeth. Snooze

4:46am: brushing my your hair. Snooze

4:47am: getting dressed. Off

5:00am: damn it… overslept, hit off instead of snooze. Rush to throw on any nearby clothing. Get dressed, grab bag and run for train. Along the sprint, curse life, shoes, the MTA and the solar system for making it only a 24 hour day.

Get to train station and realize I left my Metro card at home, in my wallet with my money and credit cards next to my glasses. Contemplate sneaking on train via the patented turnstile jump. Realize that this early in the am the coordination to avoid the turnstile and not sustain a life threatening injury is too great a requirement. Scrabble together change from every orifice, beg the homeless guy for the last quarter needed in exchange for my socks.

Purchase the card run for the train…miss train.

Anxiously await the next train, sustain whiplash from craning neck to check the tunnel every 24 sec.

Get on train, feel a little rumble in the tummy, ignore the rumble fall asleep and wake up to realize the rumble has become a full blown storm. Sprint to the nearest bathroom in the hospital grab a newspaper as I run, lets face it you never know.

Run into a stall and thank the lucky stars I made it. As I sit there contemplating life I realize that; A. I wore different color socks B. I wore yesterdays scrubs C. my day old scrubs are sitting in a pool of someone else’s urine. Vomit a little at the thought. Realize there is nothing left to do but finish the Sudoku currently imprinted on my ass from the newspaper I lay down on to avoid sitting in someone else’s urine to begin with. On the bright side proceed to finish the Sudoku on my right cheek in record time. The crossword took a little longer.

5:00pm can’t come soon enough

After sleepwalking my way through the morning, being ignored by residents, scoffed at by attendings and generally relegated to a species that equivalent to a dung beetle by the lunch lady (who by the way added my $1.30 coke, $.83 orange and $.50 chips to the nice round sum of $6.00). Get a bit of good news dismissal is half hour early. Hey any ray of sun will do.

Go to station heading for Queens, hear a train coming, get excited and run for it. Make the subway just as the doors close… breath a sigh of relief. Fall asleep before train so much as starts moving. Wake up on 81st in Manhattan; curse my luck because the switch to the F train was to happen at 42^nd st, three stops earlier. Crap. Get out and transfer to downtown B, head to 42^nd st. Get excited as the train comes into the station, because there is an F train on the opposite side. Hobble on with glee. At 34th Street (2 stops later), realize I am an idiot. This is the downtown F. Get out. Transfer to uptown F. Fall asleep before train starts moving. Wake up at 179th Street [in Queens]. Take the F downtown again, to my stop… 1 station back."

Finally get through the home door, 1 hour later then I normally would. Drop on the bed. 30 minutes later regain the ability to move. Take off my jacket and shoes grab a piece of turkey and the required textbook and settle down in bed to study. 13 minutes later fall asleep on top of piece of turkey and book.

Lurch awake with something sticky attached to my face at 4:30am. The alarm doesn’t sound any better on Tuesday

OK 10 more minutes… I am already dressed and I wont brush my hair.